Friday's Child by Kylie Brant Page B

decorator he didn’t feel like strangling after two minutes.
    â€œI should hire you to decorate my house,” he muttered.
    She looked at him askance. “You have a taste for Early American Poverty?”
    â€œIt’s not what you have in it,” he tried to explain. “Or it is, sort of.”
    â€œYou scientific types are very succinct, aren’t you?”
    He grinned. “What I mean is, the place looks like a real person lives here. It has personality.”
    â€œAnd what’s your house like?”
    â€œEmpty, mostly. It literally echoes. I just bought it a year ago, and I haven’t had time to do a lot of furniture shopping. Plus, I have no idea about colors or styles. I just know—”
    â€œWhat you like,” she finished for him.
    â€œExactly.”
    â€œThere are all kinds of interior design businesses who specialize in such things. I wouldn’t think it would be too difficult to find one who could come up with something to your taste.”
    â€œI don’t want a place that looks like it’s been ‘done,’” he explained. “I want a real home, one that looks like real people live there. I’ve never met a decorator who could coordinate homey with classy. I got so desperate I almost asked my mother for advice.” He shuddered. “Luckily I remembered what her place looks like in time to save mine from being turned into a museum.”
    â€œHow about Chloe?” Kate asked, her interest clearly piqued. “Sometimes kids come up with creative ideas. Have you asked her opinion?”
    â€œOh, yes. And it was very creative.” He rolled his eyesexpressively. “She thinks we should put a trampoline in the living room.”
    That smile showed up again. It transformed her features in a totally unexpected way, turning her lovely, slightly serious expression into an intoxicating vision that had his loins tightening, his pulse ping-ponging with physical chemistry. This woman had the potential to wreak serious havoc with his cardiovascular system, not to mention his libido, which seemed to simmer in a semistate of arousal just in her presence.
    All in all, he was pleased with the events of the evening. It had gone well, better than he’d expected, much better than he’d deserved. She’d been guarded but gracious when he’d barged into her home, showing a sense of humor and genuine warmth that he found too enticing to be physically comfortable.
    He tore his eyes away from her with effort and made a show of looking at his watch. “I’ve taken up too much of your time,” he said, attempting to sound regretful. He rose and lifted his coat off the back of the chair where he’d hung it. He shrugged into it carelessly, not bothering to zip it, and headed toward her front door. She followed him.
    At the door he turned and looked down into her face. “Thank you again.”
    Her head tilted upward to meet his gaze. “For the cookies?”
    â€œFor not throwing me out.”
    â€œI told you, it’s all right.” Her smile was wry. “Believe it or not, you’re not the first parent to disagree with me.”
    â€œYou’re too generous,” he said soberly. Without conscious volition, he reached out one blunt-tipped index finger and brushed a curly tendril of her hair over her shoulder. It sprang back into place beside her delicate jawline as soon as he removed his finger. He smiled bemusedly. It felt alive, as if it had a will of its own. The rest of his fingers itched to bury themselves into that thick mass of hair, to feel it tumbling over the back of his hands and wrists.
    His pulse slowed to a heavy thud at the evocative image. For a moment, before rational thought kicked in again, hisface moved closer to hers. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t move away from him. Her lips parted a bit, and he imagined he could feel her breath on his chin. All it would take was a